And when the sky is blue, though a little gray,

The Lord washes His love, on the little who play,

In the green fields, with straw and mounds of clay.

Miss Lala, pretty angel herself comes at bay,

And looks at the angels and the little things that make their play.

Thinks of her times and wishes her youth would stay.

She feels her mound and smiles at how close ago it seems,

That her own flimsy self, beamed with the same flames,

Of love, of innocence and passions no human could tame.

She frowns at how so soon from now,

She’ll think of herself as so different a person,

From she that tied ponytails and in the sand built castles,

And how she may never have it all pass on,

To the little angel she carries in her harm free zone.

Will her angel live to see those trees that held hands with the sky,

Or the hills that kissed its lips and none could pry?

Will the sky still have the emotions to cry?

Or the sun as much mercy for the young green not to dry?

Will the fields still have little places for young lovers to stray?

And yet as much green for the beasts that bray?

She cries as her way she finds,

And hopes to her angel humanity will be kind.

But she knows nowadays humanity and beasts are of a kind,

There’s always so much in money to gain,

They’d be so wished to think of such pain;

Or even such gain,

As little angels would retain,

If our world we didn’t as much taint.

A #Zimwe Creation ©


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